


Mirage

by thefabulousmrholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, Hot tortured sex, Infidelity, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefabulousmrholmes/pseuds/thefabulousmrholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly, a troubled young woman, craves the physical connection she needs with Sherlock. They passionately indulge each other…but at what cost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirage

**Author's Note:**

> This one is really messed up folks. Hope you like it though! Please do Read and review, and constructive criticism is always appreciated. Again, sadly no beta available, so please do excuse any glaring grammatical errors! :)

His lips ghosted over hers as she played with the thin, lustrous piece of silk of his favourite dressing gown. Tugging it lightly, she wondered what his reaction would be if she were to ruthlessly tear through it. Smiling against his mouth, she resisted the temptation. 

Deepening the kiss, Sherlock advanced towards his bedroom, pressing her to the door. Once Molly had succeeded in divesting him of his robe, he pried her wrists away from his belt, and pinned them against either side. He loved her like this, desperate, needy, completely at his mercy. The tent in his trousers grew ever so slightly. 

Molly could almost sense the lack of oxygen dull her senses and cognitive function, as he pulled away and nipped her swollen lower lip. Gazing at him through heavy-lidded eyes, an unspoken plea with a promise of ecstasy was reciprocated. 

Placating her with small, but sensual licks at the junction between her neck and shoulders, he whispered hoarsely, lust resonating through every syllable, "What did you tell him?" 

She bit back a moan as he demonstrated a particularly devastating trick he recently learnt, at her carotid pulse point. Frowning, she tried not to steer her thoughts towards the inevitably inescapable path. 

"I told him...ahh...I - oh god, - I was visiting my...colleagues." 

Wrists still in his clutches, she struggled to grasp his shirt. Her writhing actions were only spurring him on. He abandoned her neck for a second and latched onto her right earlobe. Feeling her breath hitch, her heartbeat rapidly rise, the heat emanating from her body, all this was driving him insane. He knew he had to act quickly. 

"Time, Molly. How much time have we got?" 

The clever minx had managed to regain control of one hand, and immediately stroked the messy, sweaty mop of curls at his nape, brutally pulling him towards her mouth again, effectively silencing him. After a rough, bruising kiss, the metallic taste unforgivable, she came up for air. Her heart thudded, not just with desire - she could feel the stirrings of indescribable guilt skewering through it. Mocking every second she spent debauching herself with the beautiful detective. 

She felt the salty tears sting her irises, as she let her forehead rest against his. "I don't want to discuss that now, Sherlock," she whispered breathlessly. 

Taking her cue, he released her other wrist and led her through the door onto his rather-large-for-one-consulting-detective, four-poster bed. He took hold of her shoulders gently, and directed her towards sitting on the edge of his bed, whilst he kneeled. 

Molly began to lean her torso back onto the bed, anticipating what was about to happen, and shivering unconsciously. Sherlock was masterful at this. His skilled silver tongue had to be used for some good after all. She was looking forward to her mind being wiped clear of formed thoughts and dangerous emotions, as she fisted his sheets in her small hands. He, on the other hand, had different intentions. 

Before her back could collide with the mattress he jerked her upright, mirth flashing in his eyes. She narrowed her eyes, smirking as she understood. It had been far too long since their last encounter, and he would be damned if this didn't last more then ten minutes. 

He recollected their previous tryst, hands everywhere, little foreplay, rough, animalistic thrusts, no iota of control left in both their black eyes. It was cathartic, to say the least, and terrifying - reflecting the unquenchable thirst they possessed for one another. But today, he wanted it slower. He wanted awareness. 

"Don't look away." Almost a prayer, if one listened hard enough. 

Holding her stare, he worked his nimble fingers up her left stocking and pulled it down swiftly, repeating the same action with her right one. He grasped her calves and placed two kisses, just above her patellar joint, where the indentations on her skin, from the stocking, lay. 

Sherlock then encircled his arms around her pert bum, finding the zip to her delectable mini skirt and observed her reactions. Even the soft buzzing noise the zip made was turning her on. She realised the constraint looming over them, but as soon as her skirt was strewn carelessly across the floor, she didn't care. 

He loved surprises, contrary to popular belief. Especially one where Molly conveniently forgets to wear knickers. He lets out a low groan, every cell in his brain screaming at him to fuck, ravage, devour the elfin figure in front of him. 

She gasps at the look he gives her. There's lust, obsession, and...could it be? No. Unconsciously, she closes her eyes, the eroticism of the moment threatening to cut away any semblance of sanity left in her. She yelps as she feels teeth sink into her inner thigh, so close...too close. He's punishing her for looking away. 

Sherlock drags her closer to the edge, throwing her thighs over his shoulders. He nuzzled the tuft of withery hair, his tongue finally making contact with her clit. He lapped away hungrily, all the while maintaining eye contact. 

She was unravelling beautifully. If he kept this up, she would soon break her promise, and collapse with utter bliss electrifying her nerves. She was sure the neighbours were bound to hear her broken cries and moans - a liability she could not afford. However stifling her sounds was not a luxury Sherlock Holmes was going to offer her. 

Ultimately, reaching her climax, she locked eyes with his, wailing his name. He grew harder with every mention, his trousers painfully tight. He watched her as she came down from her high. She was...stunning. Her glorious chestnut-brown hair fanned out on the bedspread, as she fell back like a limp doll. She tried to regain normal breathing pattern and he watched, fascinated as her chest expansion achieved stability. Something so simple...so mundane, could undo him. He was burning, and it was all a pretty little pathologist's fault. 

She lazily smiled at him, admiring his flawless face, shining with her essence. Slowly, she rose up to her full height, ahead of him. Boldly, she pulled his shirt out, his chest shaking with her forceful tugs. Practically ripping the buttons of his expensive Saint Laurent, it landed right where her skirt was. 

Molly cupped Sherlock's face with both her hands and licked a long strip across his lips, tasting herself - bitter. Even her bodily fluids encompassed how dark her soul was. Before remorse could rear it's ugly head her way, she found herself being tossed unceremoniously over the middle of the bed. 

Sherlock climbed over her lithely, grabbing her arms and keeping them above her head, as he dispensed of her flimsy creme shirt. Immediately he latched onto a dark nipple and sucked. Molly moaned as he lavished her breasts with the attention she craved. She scratched his scalp, bunching up fistfuls of his hair as he marked her, a dark purple bruise beginning to form on her breast. 

Having gotten his fill for the moment, he rested back on his knees and hastily proceeded to remove his infernal belt and threw his trousers and pants over with the rest of the discarded clothing. Meanwhile Molly had cleverly taken advantage, and flipped their positions as she bent low and languidly kissed his chest. 

She straddled him as his hands returned to her breasts, circling her nipples and rubbing the hickey he gave her. He growled as she teased him, rubbing herself against his cock, not quite letting him enter. 

“Molly…please. You’re not playing fair,” he croaked. 

“Who said anything about playing fair?” She chuckled darkly as she deliberately hovered centimetres in the air, before rolling her hips suggestively against his erection. 

A bright glint emanating from her finger caught his eye. Fury. Blind fury courses through his veins. 

He violently gripped her hips, rolling her over underneath him, and with no warning thrust his whole length into her. The sudden friction and pain caused her to yell, first in shock, and then in indescribable pleasure. Rough is what she needed now, more than ever. 

Sherlock hitched her leg even higher up and he relentlessly plunged into her over and over again. She tried to bring her arms around him, tried to bring him closer to her, merge them into one, but he refused to oblige. 

Once again, he took her wrists, this time in one large hand, and fixed them far above her reach. With the other hand reaching below to pinch her clit, his anger and hurt intensified as he continued his merciless fucking. 

Molly couldn’t contain her moans any longer. She didn’t give a fuck if anyone heard her. Everyone was welcome to hear the depravity and corruption of innocence. Strangely she felt the mutiny within her thrive, as she imagined her audience gasping in horror and clutching their South Sea pearls. Well, fuck them. She didn’t need them to remind her of how low this was of her. 

“Molly.” A strained, husky voice listen her out of her reverie. 

“Y-yes.”

“Tell me-”

“What?”

“Tell me how much you need this,” he whispered, as he suckled on her earlobe. 

She was too far gone to answer. 

“Tell me, Molly. I want to hear how much you want me.”

“I…Sherlock I-”

“Does it feel like this with him too?” 

Her eyes snapped open. She must have misheard him. 

“Does it? Hmm? Does he get to fuck you like this every night?” 

Molly felt as though a ton of cold water had been doused on her head. She tried to wriggle away from his mouth, but soon found that futile considering her hands were in his vice-like grip. He had heedlessly turned the ring on her finger around, facing him as he entered her. 

She looked up at him in utter disgust, whilst he met her vitriol with accusatory, betrayed eyes. 

“You bastard. You selfish, loathsome, bastard. How dare-”

He silenced her with an aching kiss, his free hand reaching for her clit again. He swallowed her protests, her moans, and finally, her screams which could have been blatherings of his name, as he brought her to her second climax. 

Her didn’t give her a second to breathe, thrusting on, looking at her tear filled face, and finding wetness staining his cheeks as well. He could feel how close he was, his release almost palpable. In the moment just before, he let go of her wrists. She carded her fingers through his hair and tenderly kissed him as he finally came. Molly, Molly, Molly. A staunch devotee worshipping a goddess. 

They held each other for a few moments, until she nudged him off her. Quietly, she gathered her clothes, dressed and fixed her wrecked hair and make-up, and left 221B, first brisk walking, then running, then sprinting back to her real life. 

 

——————————–

 

He lay there as she had left him. Naked and empty. Heartless. Cruel. Broken. 

He yearned for her return, but of course she never came. She always went back to him, to Tom. He was her love after all. Sherlock just possessed her in physicality. For a few hours, like a common… He swore, perishing the thought before it erupted in his mind. 

Molly wasn’t a whore. She was…an unattainable, confused and lost girl. A girl he craved more than the best hit of cocaine he had in his entire miserable lifetime. 

Sherlock lay there on his bed, face down. Mindlessly, he noted the maps, enlargement of photographs on his wall, the periodic table. The breeze whirred over his microscopes and slides sitting on his desk. The shutters were closed, just the thinnest shaft of light from the lamppost outside piercing the gloom. It had probably been hours since he’d lain there. 

A knock on his door. He’s jutting in and out of consciousness, it was probably nothing. Another knock was heard. Sherlock continued to sleep though. This time, a third more persistent one, roused him from the dead.

It’s Molly. She takes a timid step into his   
room, her chin raised defiantly high, taking in the sight before her. She’s bathed, luminous, in a simple white cotton dress, absolutely ethereal. He sees she’s forgone a bra. 

Getting out of bed, he walked towards her, his nudity inconsequential, trivial even. He stopped short of half a foot from her. 

WHACK. She slapped him shockingly hard, her lips trembling. He kneels before her, his head against her thighs, as she continues to wildly beat his shoulders, as tears streak down. Then, it all stops. 

“Don’t ever assume anything about him, again. Do you understand?” 

He pulls back to look at her. Molly bends down and covers his face with kisses. 

Sherlock pulls blindly at her dress and it rips across at her breasts, as he drags her down to the floor with him. 

If you asked him several hours later, he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t be sure if it was real…or a mirage his devilish mind created. It didn’t matter really. She was with him, and that’s all he needed. For now.


End file.
